


Ice, Coffee

by LadyLuckDoubt



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, Phoenix Wright Kink Meme, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 02:20:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLuckDoubt/pseuds/LadyLuckDoubt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Gatewater Hotel's Bellboy muses on his interactions with, and meeting of the auspicious Miss April May.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice, Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> One thing I love about this fandom is the incidental characters who you might only see for one case; rather than being quick fill ins, they're complex and interesting and quirky and they have very distinct personalities.
> 
> Two such characters are April May and the Bellboy from 1-2.
> 
>  
> 
>  _"But not a French kiss, sir! More like a peck on the cheek..."_
> 
>  _The Bellboy was lying with this statement. I request Bellboy X April May._
> 
> That was what the request on the Kink Meme asked for, and I was instantly drawn in: we see so little of both the Bellboy and April May, yet their interaction is hinted at being more interesting than the brushover it gets in amongst the high drama of _Turnabout Sisters_.

You checked her in, yourself, and you checked her  _out_  at the same time, too.

Of course, four generations of bellboyery, and you damn well know you shouldn't have done that, but you did, the years of conditioning and customer service and socialisation that you received disappeared in an instant.

There was something both glamourous and fragile about her, like an anorexic movie star. The tragic beauty. A sadness and a distance about her, the mysterious woman in pink who you knew most men would  _think_  they could easily get close to, but you've worked in a hotel all your life, and you damn well know that facades are just that and people tend to take everyone else at face value.

As a provider of top-notch customer service, though, you know better. You know how to read people for their little subtleties, you know that for many of them you're essentially a prostitute, that someone lonely and too busy enough to use a hotel room isn't neccessarily looking for a spotless room and a Bible in the drawer and a well-stocked minibar, but they're looking for the sense that even somewhere as anonymous as a hotel room, someone cares a whit about them.

Businessmen with class issues who grew up poor and missed out on parental affection because their parents were too busy at their fulltime jobs.

The suicidal recent-single who wants the penthouse suite, while you're fully aware there's no way in hell they can afford it, that there used to be a wedding ring on that finger, and there's probably a handgun in their luggage lest they look down and falter and be unable to jump.

The forgotten secretary or assistant of the big boss who accompanies him everywhere, a woman so dedicated to her job and concern for her client that she's essentially forgotten to worry about herself.

 _April May._

They all just want someone to notice their anguish and loneliness, and offer one small gesture that shows them they're cared about and that you give a shit. That's the essential key to being a good bellboy. Convincing them you care. 

People will tip like a house of cards when they think you give a fuck about them.

  
The moment you saw her walking in, you weren't sure whether you were captivated because of her striking features or because of the fact that she could have been a kindred spirit, another with a life like yours, devoted to other people for cash. You were sure, though, that this was an unusual way to think about a client; you'd always been taught that you wrote off the whys about people and just dealt with their immediate needs with an impersonal smile that made them feel cared for but which was noncommittal and unobtrusive. You were friendly, in a perfectly manufactured, impersonal sort of way.

But when you saw her, something stirred. You knew you were like every other man, that with a figure like hers and candy-coloured hair, Miss May would attract attention, but you noticed something strange and broken in her walk, like a limp from a broken leg as a child, only it was all psychological. Your uncle Kenny said you should have done away with this hotellier business, not followed in the family footsteps and gone to university. Gone into marketing, he said, you were smart and good at figuring people out and what they wanted. 

And of course you privately relished that dream for a minute, before realising your earthboundedness, and the fact that you'd be donning that uniform at the start of the shift and going in to work with a tea tray and a big fucken smile on your face.

April May came in alone. You didn't see her immediately because one of the junior bellboys was manning the front counter at that stage, but when he asked about how to process a business account holders' credit card, you were called from your short-lived smoke break, crushing the half-smoked cigarette out against the toilet wall, irritated that he'd beeped for you, wondering what was so fucking important that you couldn't get two minutes alone, off your feet, and nursing a couple of cancersticks. 

You walked out to the front desk, your walk, your demeanour changing with every step as you slipped into the role of bellboy for the millionth time, waiting for some trivial problem which someone else could have solved.

And that was when you first saw her.

 

Outward happiness, just like your own.

"Hee hee-- hel _lo_  Mister Bellboy..." Obviously false lashes-- well, they were nearly an inch long and  _pink_  fluttered at you. 

You're about to tell her that  _she's_  the customer and you're not a potential customer, you're mentally storing away the sheer over-the-top-ness of her mannerisms, ready to have a chuckle with the other staff out the back when there's nothing else to talk about.

And then something catches you, a distance in her eyes which lies beneath the smile and the pink and the false lashes. 

You feel sorry for her; and somehow that makes you see something beautiful in her, beyond the looks and the act and the fact that she's most likely flirting with you and she's already got the kid behind the counter utterly mesmerised.

"I'll take it from here," you say, smooth, calm, and personable. "Welcome to the Gatewater Hotel Miss..." You look down at the credit card on the desk for a surname, and see the impersonal stamp of an unknown company.  _Bluecorp_. Could be anything.

You wait for her to introduce herself. She doesn't. You eye the junior behind the desk, giving him his cue to leave, and are ready to have a stern talking to him afterwards about ogling the patrons. Ogling is not conducive to a warm and friendly and customer-focused environment like we try to provide at Gatewater. 

Still, there's a part of you that already realises that this has gotten too personal already, that you're offended on her behalf, that you've seen something that no one else knows is there and that any man cheapening her like a piece of eyecandy isn't worthy of her presence. Already you've decided that you alone are going to take care of her needs, and already you're aware that you've thrown yourself in way too deep.

You don't even know her name at this stage. 

"How can I help you?"

"I'm here on business," she explains. " _Big_  business. I made a booking last week under the name of White..." She trails off absently. "My employer requested a room here, nothing too flash, really, but with a decent view of the city." Her eyes widen and she bites her bottom lip. She's flirting with you again, and you're not used to this so the new attention is flattering and almost fascinating, but part of your brain is screaming no. "He loves this city," she continues, and you wonder if she's staying with him or just making the arrangements. "It's so  _big_." 

You nod impersonally. 

"Well," you say, "I'll check the system." Snaking your way behind the counter where the junior is no longer standing, you pull up the records of bookings. It appears that whoever took the phone call last week didn't record anything, or this mysterious woman in pink is lying through her teeth. 

You decide it's the former, and apologise for the miscommunication. And upgrade her room, free of charge.

It's all good customer service, of course.

"Thankyou, Mister Bellboy." She flutters her eyelashes again, and you inquire as to whether or not she needs luggage brought up to her room. She doesn't. 

"Is there anything else I can assist you with?" you ask. You're asking the same damned question you ask all your guests, but she flutters her eyelashes and giggles.

"I  _wonder_  what you'd like to assist me with, Mister Bellboy," she says coquettishly, and once again you're both flattered and horrified. You've never had someone, a guest in particular, a client-- be this forward with you. Sure, there have been drunken hens'-- and sometimes bucks'-- nights participants who've hired a hotel room and been less than subtle, but this time it's completely different. Like everything else about her image, it's almost kitsch and larger than life... just like your appearance.

"Whatever you need, Miss..." You trail off leaving her to introduce herself which she still hasn't done yet, and your voice suggests you have no idea what she's implying. 

She extends a hand. Rather than being businesslike, it's as though she's girlishly inviting a kiss. You don't kiss her hand but shake it as you should. Gentle, but firm.

"May," she says, a giggle coming into her voice, "April May."

You wonder how easy it is for her to play this role.

 

 

You try not to think about her for the next few hours. But you can't help it. The hotel is virtually empty anyway, and there isn't much to do. You busy yourself with menial tasks, making beds, going over the bookings, straightening things in the store room which really don't need to be straightened-- anything you can to take your mind off her. 

The kid from the front desk comes up to you as he's finishing his shift at seven o'clock. 

"Still thinking about that girl in the penthouse, are you?" he asks, so off-handedly and so flippantly that a rage seizes you and you have a strong urge to slap him. But he's just a pimply-faced nineteen-year-old kid still learning the ropes, and you need him on shift tomorrow. And you don't need assault charges pressed against you and tarnishing the good name of the Gatewater hotel. 

"No," you say. "And you shouldn't be thinking about her, either. She's a paying customer."

"No she's not," he says. "Her old man's paying for everything."

"Old man?" You're standing out the back, in a fire exit of all places, and the two of you are smoking. You've got your usual cigarette in hand, he's possibly smoking something less than legal, but he's finished his shift and you don't ask too many questions. It's not like the customers can see you here, and it's not like you should be smoking in the fire exit, either. 

"Some punce with a purple perm," he says. "I think the guy's...  _you know_." 

You feign ignorance. Whatever your clients do in their personal lives or in your hotel rooms is absolutely none of your business. As long as they're not trashing the place, of course.

And there's nothing to suggest that Miss May, or whoever her old man is, would do such a thing.

He continues, in stupid nineteen-year-old-kid confidence. Like he can talk about anything. He's still so obviously a trainee in need of some lessons about discretion.

"I think she's either a high-class hooker or a beard," he says. He looks thoughtful. "Maybe she's a trannie, you know, one of those she-male people."

You wrinkle your nose in disgust and dismiss him. You wonder how many other men have looked at her and made assumptions about her like that. 

You finish your cigarette when hes gone, stubbing it out against the wall in the fire recess, with an anger you're not used to. You don't quite know  _why_  you're this angry, and in the distance, inside, there's a phone call coming through to the reception desk. Someone, as usual, wants something. Or they want to complain about something. 

You're wondering, as you walk back to the desk, how long you're going to last in this job in this shitty no-name hotel. Four generations of bellboys, and no one managed to turn the Gatewater into anything more than a three-and-a-half-star facility with wonderful service which no one notices. Your job makes you a cog in an insignificant machine, and for years that hasn't bothered you. But now, something about the fact that you're tired and you have to deal with people who  _don't get it_  and you can't even have a godamned cigarette in peace, and like the whole facade feels like it's just pushing shit up a hill for no reason-- is starting to eat at you.

 

This is only one of many double shifts you've worked; your life has become entwined with this place, its just what Mom and Dad would be proud of, but when you think about it, that your life's so tied in with something so ridiculously insignificant, well, it's just completely depressing.

You answer the phone, waiting for a complaint about a toilet that doesn't flush or a stupid question about how to get the porn channel on the inhouse cable TV.

 

But it's her. She sounds breathy and girlish, like she's just woken up, or is just about to go to sleep after having a long, hot shower.

You try to stop visualising that, but you can't. Her voice doesn't make it any easier.

 

"I need something, Miss-tah Bellboy..." She draws her words out, like she's wanting to prolong the conversation, or maybe that's just your wishful thinking. "I need it  _now_." 

"Yes?" It takes some effort to get your mind out of the gutter and back onto the job at hand. "What may I do for you, Miss May?"

You're not expecting the answer she gives you, even though this job has taught you to expect the unexpected.

 

"...I'm  _lonely_."

Ordinarily, you'd offer condolences and try to sell the customer the extras package where they could indulge in a night of apparently high-class pornography on the Night Moves channel, and enough alcohol to make them forget that they're so miserable and pathetic that they resorted to telling the  _service_  their problems. 

But this is different. April May doesn't want porn and she doesn't want alcohol, and it's like that time your sister-in-law asked if you wanted to hold the new baby, and suddenly something so ridiculously simple was overtly complex and difficult. You're out of your depth and there's no scripted response you can- or want to- offer her. 

You want a cigarette now, can taste that awful tang in your mouth and feel your fingers being compelled to do something. But the lobby is smoke-free of course, and it's unbecoming for staff to be seen smoking.

"Hello?" You don't know what to say. This is strange territory for you, this is when being interested in someone- a cardinal no-no- goes beyond the vapid customer service skills you have garnered over the years, where caring about someone comes from some place other than professional autodrive.

"Yes, Miss May?" You're about to suggest that she go down to the bar, have herself a few drinks, and then you see the figure walking past.

 

He's noticeable. He struts, rather than walks, and even though he's old enough to be your father and possibly her  _grand_ father, you know it's him, just as much as the way he moves makes you know that he's got a well-defined, muscular body underneath that ostentatious suit. He couldn't draw more attention to himself unless he were being followed by paparazzi and screaming fangirls. 

"Redd's gone out." She doesn't sound flirtatious any more, she sounds tired. You find yourself wondering why she doesn't just take a couple of Xanax and have a quiet night in. But she answers that.

"I have to stay awake because it's the finale of  _Successful People_."

You have no idea what she's talking about, but she continues; she's right, she's lonely, she just wants someone who'll listen to her. For some reason not fully known to yourself, you indulge her. 

"You know that show, don't you?" She continues, like she's desperately clinging to a cliff edge, like she's holding on before she knows she's going to be pushed off... to your attention.

That in itself is pathetically sad.

Someone like her should not be resorting to such indignity.

"It's about all these- um- successful people in the finance sector and they're all... you'd think it was stupid..." Her moment of clarity is interrupted by her need to talk to you "...they're all fighting amongst themselves and backstabbing one another during corporate meetings and it's actually  _really good_  when you get into it."

You see Redd and his lavender perm and showy suit slip out the door as she starts talking about the characters. You wonder what he's doing, if he's got other women, other  _men_  maybe, on the side. Maybe he owes someone else some time and his shimmering brilliance.

"And anyway... well, I have to watch it. It's the  _finale_." She says it so desperately and in such a lost sort of way that you realise it's not really about the show. It's about having something, some _one_  in her miserable little life- being constantly occupied with Redd means she's lost the ability to have  _people_  in her life, so she's got these fake people in the television to empathise with and care about instead.

You wonder guiltily if you'd just find this plain pathetic, and not particularly deserving of sympathy, if she wasn't pretty. 

"Is there anything I can do for you, Miss May?" The moment you ask, you're scared she's going to take it the wrong way, and is going to suggest something that could put a genuine smile on your face for once and land your arse fired, but be the best thing that's ever happened in the history of this pathetic job. 

You wonder when you got this bitter and desperate.

"Ice coffee," April says over the phone. She's realised you're not going to keep talking. Maybe she thinks you're bored of her. Or busy with something else. Or that you're too professional to stand around and chat.

"Certainly," you say. That you  _can_  do.

"It has to be to brought up at nine o'clock," she tells you. "I just thought I'd give you early notice because probably you have lots of, you know, bellboy things to do around now."

 _You know, Bellboy things_. You don't know what she means and most likely,  _she_  doesn't know what she means. But it's sweet that she's pretending she cares.

"And anyway," she continues, "My show is on, and I totally won't be getting up to answer the door when it's on, you know?" 

Her tone's changed, and you can recognise it. She sounds harder, like a spoiled child playing her parents off against one another. 

You're about to roll your eyes: you've had divas in here before; generally the more high-ranking someone is, the more down-to-earth and polite they are. It's the rising stars and the C-graders who are a bunch of arseholes, who think that to prove how successful you are, you need to brag about how much cash they (probably don't) have, who think that that shitty little role in some crummy made-for-late-night-TV movie where the highlight was that some girl took her top off entitles them to act like they're better than everyone else.

So often you see those people, and you want to shake them, to tell them to grow the fuck up and get over themselves, and that no one but stoned teenagers and zombified night shift workers will be looking at their C-grade tits anyway.

But you don't. Customer fucking service. 

And with her, it's different. She's not some coked-up actress, what you've seen of her is all veneer and a slight crack showing the misery underneath. She's putting it on, playing a role, as she wants you to.

 _Fine_.

"Certainly, Miss May," you tell her.

"Goodie!" She giggles again, and then comes the breathy voice. "Thankyou Mister Bellboy..." And another giggle. An airy, childlike, and yet almost devious chuckle. "I forgot to say-- bring  _two_  ice coffees, please."

The request for the second ice coffee makes you wonder.  _Why_? Her roommate (Is she fucking him? Isn't she?  _You should not be wondering about that..._ ) had left the building earlier, and he looked like he was out for a night on the town. 

"Certainly, Miss May," you say. 

"Bye-bye now... I'll see you...  _later_." And there's another giggle, suggestive and lewd, and you know you're far too interested, far too concerned, and you're going to bring her the best damned ice coffees you can take upstairs.

 

  
She'll never know that your interest in her isn't as simple and tawdry as everyone else's. She'll never need to. And you won't need to let her know, either: it will be just a wonderful, kindly act of customer service which she and her... probably lover, you resign yourself to thinking-- will tip generously for.

You can't fix her life. You can't see what really lies behind the image. You're not supposed to, you have your place and your role, and tomorrow, the two of them will leave, none the wiser. 

 

You can't do much at all. But you  _can_  provide one-- two-- fucking good ice coffees.

You're waiting there, outside her door, at two minutes to nine.

Yes, this is irrational and ridiculous. If the two of you were fucking, this would qualify as semi-creeptacular stalker behaviour, wouldn't it?

You ignore that thought; it's paranoia, Miss May was  _very specific_  about what time she wanted her iced coffees.

Maybe White came back and you missed him while you tended to the other guests, making sure they were placated and would just shut the hell up and not make any demands of you-- while you're dealing with  _this_.

You wait at the door, like a teenager in a movie as they're about to approach the family home of the girl they're about to take to he prom.

 

You're twenty six years old, and god, you're being pathetic. 

 

Check the watch. What's the bet your pager will go off just as you're about to knock on the door, and someone two floors down will be whining about a shower recess that overflows or a missing courtesy mint on the pillow?

 

You remember that junior they put on last summer who got fired for stealing the courtesy mints. You chuckle, and you're not sure why. Distracting yourself, working the jitters out before you see her, so you can look professional and polished when you take the ice coffees in? They're freezing: steam wisps off the glasses, which came out of the freezer before they were filled. You told the caterer a white lie, that someone very powerful and important wanted those ice coffees, and that the tip would definitely be worthwhile.

 

You can hear the TV beyond the door. Muted, muffled TV voices that you shouldn't be listening to are speaking; and you feel suddenly intrusive, because even though it's a lousy soap opera that you could be watching downstairs if you were so inclined; it's no big  _secret_ ; you shouldn't be listening to those voices  _here_. 

You remember that strange guy with the facial tic who lasted three days and got fired because he kept listening at people's doors when he thought they were having sex. One of the cleaners caught him whacking off in a cupboard down the hallway after such an incident.

 

  
It suddenly occurs to you that you work in a very strange industry. It's strange because you're all human even though it's your job to make people forget that about you. But little cracks of the staffs' humanness, their completely messed up psyches- manage to find their way through, and they wind up doing things which they never thought they would when they got the job. Maybe this job just  _does that to you_. Maybe it's done it to you now, and this is why you're standing sheepishly in front of the door of a pink-haired woman, already having decided that you know her and are completely captivated by her. 

Maybe you're more fucked up and creepy than Charlie the Chocolate Thief and Larry the Listener. You try to think of a terrible title for yourself, to describe this pathetic behaviour, and you can't. Your identity has been so twisted by this job that it's like you don't have a name any more.

 

This is going to be your one professional failing. Once she's gone, you're back to normal. Everything will return to normal, and you can dream about big things in the hotel industry and maybe you can buy some more shares in the place, and perhaps you can put this fucking place on the map one day. Yeah. Everyone needs dreams, because without something nice to imagine as distraction, the utter  _drudge_ of reality is too depressing to contemplate. 

You put the tray down and pace. There's less than a minute now, and you need to jerk out the jitters, all for seeing her for a few seconds, handing the drinks over, and doing your dash, hoping that she tips well enough so you don't have to give the caterer his implied reward out of your own paycheck.

You do a little jig down the corridor, stopping a couple of seconds later, terrified that White will decide to appear on the scene then and roll his eyes or make some distainful comment, or, god forbid,  _encourage_  you. 

You stop, frozen.

 _Ten seconds_.

You pick up the tray. If you spill it, you're going to look like a douche.

 _Eight..._

Smile, godammit.

 _Seven_...

Not too much.

 _Five_

There. Knock now.

 _Two_.

"Hello? Reddy Teddy?"

 _Zero._

 

"Room service, Miss May."

 

 

You can tell she wasn't really expecting to see Redd White at the door when she opens it, but it's like she was  _saying it_ , waiting for the universe to convince her otherwise. 

Maybe she wasn't wanting to get her hopes up in case someone else brought the ice coffee.

And there you are, tray in hand, smiling foppishly. "Ice coffee, Miss May." Keeping your voice completely steady, you look at the expression on her face.

 

She seems nervous. Giggly and nervous. 

"Oh,  _you_ ," she says with a chuckle, batting her eyelashes and sticking the tip of her tongue out just a bit. "Come on in."

You're not really  _supposed_  to do that. You're meant to hand the tray to her and leave her be, get your tip and head off to the next client who needs something.

But she's invited you in and you pride yourself on your impeccable customer service.

A long time ago, you heard a story about a bellboy who was stupid enough to enter a room when he knew there were patrons inside, and they happened to be in the  _middle of something_. Their kink apparently was being witnessed doing things by strangers. 

And then scaring the hell out of the strangers. Apparently the poor kid Wellington left the job that night, taking his week's pay and tips, never to be heard from again. 

 _Idiot_ , you think, but you know this is different. Miss May doesn't want to shock you. She just wants her ice coffee brought in.

  
"Is there anything else I can get you?" You've placed them on the small coffee table by the television. The bedroom door is open, and it looks exactly as it did before she and Redd checked in. Amazingly ordered, like no one was actually using the room. 

You shouldn't be thinking about it, but you find yourself smiling maybe hopefully when you think about the fact that they weren't fucking in there. The sheets are still made up as they were, there is still a towel and hotel slippers on the end of the bed.

But maybe they were fucking somewhere else. Still, you don't think so; you're not sure why, but you can't-- or don't want to-- and you hate yourself for thinking  _that_ \-- imagine it. Redd White seems too... old... and... flamboyant.

You walk towards the door. She's standing there, watching you with something akin to amusement, like she's fascinated by the fact that she's got you doing things for her. It's strange: surely she's well aware that she could probably have all manner of men doing  _anything_  for her if she wanted.

But, no. 

You wonder about the screwdriver jammed into the drawer, which seems about the only thing that's changed in the room, and notice that the television has been turned off. The curtains are open, looking out into the miserable corporate offices across the street, which somehow become a beautiful view when the sun sets and the lights aren't competing with it. Smog and cloud has killed the stars in the sky, but mankind has replaced them with the inhuman glow of electrical lighting.

She sees you glance out the window.

"It's beautiful out there, isn't it?" you ask vacantly. Already too personal, even though you said it in such an understated, customer-service kind of way.

Hell, you're almost being  _romantic_. Towards a  _customer_. If she fills out that questionaire card about the quality of service and calls you a sleazebag, it's no one's fault but your own. 

 

  
To your complete surprise, she walks over to the window and looks out. "Yeah," she says. She looks down at the coffees on the tray, and then at the seat, before looking back at you. You noticed that sadness you saw in her eyes earlier, only this time it's seeped into her voice.

"I thought Redd would be back by now," she says. 

"I'm sure he'll return soon." 

She looks at the coffees again. "You know, you can't enjoy ice coffee properly when the ice has melted. And you can't enjoy two ice coffees by yourself." 

She then gives you a completely devillish look. "Won't you stay with me til Redd gets back?" she asks. She sounds like a naughty schoolgirl suggesting you cut classes with her and smoke some Lucky Strikes behind the gym. 

"Pretty  _please_?" And there go the eyelashes again. 

And there  _you_  go again.

 

 

 

Your shift ended half an hour ago. The next shift would have come on downstairs; they can take care of everyone else-- and you-- can provide another level of customer service to her.

"I shouldn't do this, Miss May--" Her face falls, and she's now pouting, her bottom lip sticking out sullenly-- "But...  _if you want me to_..."

Suddenly you're unsteady. You shouldn't sound like this, you shouldn't be turning into this. This job is about not losing your head and coming across as a complete professional.

"I wouldn't want you to watch the other ice coffee melt," you say nervously.

And that's when she jumps up and kisses you. 

You weren't expecting that. 

You weren't expecting her to be so instantly affectionate for some reason, for her arms to grab you like that. For someone so little, she's strong, and she could probably-- as much as you don't want to think about it, especially not now that she's opening her mouth against yours, asking for the worst breach of customer service regulations imaginable-- pull you down onto the couch and hold you there and oh dear fucking  _god_  WHY are you thinking that and...

"Hmm," she says as she pulls away, her eyes darker and her smile cheekier. She must be wearing that smudge-proof lipstick they advertise on the billboards you see on your way to work because it hasn't budged whatsoever.

Oh, god you're in trouble. Your heart is racing. 

"You enjoyed that, didn't you, Mister Bellboy?" She giggles. She was pressed up against you tight enough to know just how  _much_  you enjoyed that. 

"Do you want to do that again, or do you want to drink ice coffee with me?" There's a glimmer in her eyes suggesting that her loneliness could be fixed much more quickly with more than just sharing an ice coffee with her. Or kissing.

Or... god.  _No._    
Yes.   
This isn't  _fair_. 

You're torn between wanting her, and wanting to have a job to come into tomorrow morning. 

 

"I think your _friend_ would have something to say about that," you say. You wonder if her job would be on the line if she did what she was proposing, too. You don't want to think of her as that type of girl, but you can't help but already think of Redd as that type of guy.

She sits down at the coffee table and doesn't look at you.

"Drink your ice coffee," she says. "Before it just becomes cold, wasted, unwanted coffee." There's a bitterness in her voice that maybe always was there but just got sugared with babytalk and batted eyelashes.

You sit down. You're curious now. Was that her sounding  _hurt_? Did you hit a nerve? Did you remind her of--

"Redd probably  _would_  fire me," she says angrily, stabbing into the ice coffee with the long straw accompanying it. She then looks up at you. "But maybe I  _wanna_  be fired." 

"Certainly you don't mean that, Miss May." You keep your voice steady, and you start asking yourself if you're just an excuse, a dog to eat someone's homework, a grandmother that died so you could call in sick.

"Maybe Miss May is  _sick_  of being his keeper," she says. "Maybe she's  _tired_  of waiting up in a hotel room while he's down there doing..." And she doesn't say what he's doing, but you  _know_. 

She looks towards the window but doesn't walk there. 

 

  
"He's been looking into the building across the road  _all day_ ," she says. And then stops herself, which you notice because the way she sounded, it was like she was about to come to with some gossip or another. Sometimes it's more interesting what you  _don't_  hear.

She takes a sip of her coffee, and mutters something under her breath which sounds like "Fucking creep." You agree with that sentiment, at least.

 

You sip your own coffee. Maybe her motivation in inviting you up here wasn't so much about sex, but about intimacy.

"I always wondered what it would be like to stay at a hotel with him," she says quietly. "I always knew, the great,  _splendiferous_  Redd White, jetsetting off everywhere and I used to tease him and flirt--  _Reddy, I wanna go hang around a hotel with you-- Hee hee! It would be FUN!..._ \--" It's haunting how well she impersonates herself-- "And now we do and he disappears anyway. I got brought here like a socialite's handbag dog."

She looks at you then, troubled and broken. "That's all I am... a  _dog_."

She blinks, and she's cracked you. You want to hold her. You want to take her away from all this. You want to let her manipulate you if only to make her feel a bit better.

Maybe she sees how pathetic the look on your face is. She's got you. Hook, line, sinker, and anything else in there. 

You wonder if she knows just  _how much_  she's got you, if this was all a big act. The problem is, now, you're fully aware your concern for her isn't an act from  _you_ , you're all-too-genuine.

And she's all-too-trainwreck. 

" _You_  don't think I'm a dog, do you, Mister Bellboy?"

She slurps on her ice coffee then, a completely sleazy look on her face, even though her huge brown eyes are sparkling with the beginning of tears. 

She's just like you. She's fucked up. Her professional role forces her to whitewash something more simple and humanistic over that, but when the curtains are drawn, she's like you, desperate for something real, something human, a likeminded soul and...

And you are compelled to, have to-- leave. 

Standing up, you finish your coffee. "I think you're beautiful," you say. The words come out, choked, like you were punched in the gut as you speak them. 

You wonder vaguely if she even  _realised_. That's April May for you, someone who's learned to get by in relation to other people, who switched on the charm and turned it sexual when needed for an identity.

 

  
If you ignored the flirting and the double-entendres, she'd have probably taken her top off. A smarter and crueller man might have ignored that too.

"You're radiant," you say. You leave out the bit about fucked up, because most likely, she's already aware of that, and pointing out to someone superflusously that they're fucked up is like telling someone they've got a huge red pimple on the end of their nose or that they're missing their front two teeth. 

 

But your words shake unprofessionally. You know you can do this, you just don't want to. Every single issue of your on rises to the surface; your long hours and loneliness, the way people look down on everyone working in the hospitality industry and the fact that it's been in your blood for decades and you want to be the one who makes the Gatewater  _prosper_ , the way no one really shows any interest in you-- hell, they don't even talk to you-- unless they've got a cheap, quick, basic need for sex from someone they like the look of and who won't say no.

They do it to her and it disgusts you, because they do the same thing to you. You're not going to be like your father and Uncle Marty, it's not noble, it fucking  _stinks_. All their lives, they slaved away, and for what...?

And then you see her, looking at you, verging on tears and you never finished what you needed to say to her.

"You're an amazing woman, Miss May-- and you know that Redd White is just your employer and I'm just a Bellboy." 

"But..." She sniffles. "Wouldn't you like to...?"

God, she's not making this easy. You're turning her down and you're not quite sure why, it's not about the fact that you feel a little bit guilty for consuming Redd White's coffee, that you've been hit on by his secretary, and that you could risk losing your job if anyone found out about this.

You have more integrity than most people in the service industry, and that's what makes you a damned good Bellboy. Even if you hate yourself for it, and will be kicking yourself for it later on. Even if you might understand her and some part of her has connected with you enough to let her defenses down and be seen like this, you can't do it.

No matter what you want.

No matter what she wants.

 

 

 

Tomorrow morning Redd White will return and the two of them will leave and she'll go back to her office job tending to Redd and she'll forget you and you'll jut be another random guy who thought she was pretty, who she opened up to and got burned by.

She can, you think, at least comfort herself with the fact that she got under your skin. You wonder if she'd think of that as an achievement.

  
You leave her question dangling and unanswered. Maybe it'll help preserve her dignity; she tell herself you were gay or couldn't maintain an erection or something. She can be angry and disgusted and mentally depart with a sneer on her face and her nose in the air. Rather than with you on her shoulder and shamed and jobless for breaking that cardinal rule of customer service....

 

You'll never see her again. But you're always going to remember her.

And you can't cry because that would be unprofessional but you've done the right thing. The big family at Gatewater, and all their ancestors, would be proud of you.

You want to scream. You want to punch something. You want to be an accountant or a garbage collector, because accountants and garbage collector don't have to deal with this shit. 

"I have to leave, Miss May," you state, moving towards the door, your eyes deliberately not meeting hers. 

"But... Mister Bellboy. Don't you wanna see what  _else_  is on TV?" She giggles, pushing her chest out in front of her, TV remote suddenly in her hand in a gesture that on anyone else would probably not look like anything, ut on her, it looks vaguely suggestive. "Redd ordered a full range of different stations. There's nothing I won't  _watch_." The voice is husky, the words suggestive, and she's suddenly no longer teary anymore, it's back to business for her. 

Reverting to baby talk and sexually suggestive.

And god, no, now  _you're_  seeing her like  _that_.

  
She's tragic, she's fucked up, she's taken at face value. She's Marilyn fucking Monroe. 

And she's your customer.

 

"I have other clients to attend to," you say, jovial and smiling, deciding then and there that giving up something real, walking away from it for no other reason than it compromised you professionally had damn well better lead to some professional clout.

You open the door, giving her the most subtly insincere smile that you've given anyone. Ever. 

And you don't give her a chance to respond. You have work to do.

  
When the door shuts behind her, you're unsurprised by disappointed that she doesn't come out after you.

You're just the same as her in some ways. 

But not, because you would have opened that door, would have made an excuse.

 

You walk down the corridor, and then downstairs, and then down  _that_  corridor, amazed that no one's bothered you. Usually you get the most people annoying you when you're on a break or going home, it's the laws of working in a people-service industry. You notice that some arsehole has poked a hole in the decorative painting on the wall, and that some clown has changed the standard halogen light bulb at the end of the hallway-- for a psychedelic multi-coloured one. You're surprised that none of the guests have complained; maybe they  _like_  muted blues and purples rather than the boring clear expected customer service of 80 watts of white.

And for some strange reason, blame a hippie-painted light globe, but you're going to go back there, be honest with her, all the rest of it. You wonder what she did while she was gone: open the windows and look out at the stars? 

You heard a scream from somewhere up there, and you don't know what it was. If it was Miss May, she'd have bellhopped you about needing more toilet paper or fear of a mouse in her room. Logic prevails: it wasn't her because why  _would_  she scream?

Goddammit, you want to say something. You walk past her door, you can hear a sniffle and she wasn't sneezing or crying before. Jesus. 

You want to go in there. Fuck the consequences. Fuck everything. Fuck...

 

  
"Wonderful night, isn't it, sir?" The only people who call you sir are punks acting like they're utterly loaded. Pretending to be hoity-toity types who are playing at being rich adults. There's always a condescending sneer behind the word, like they know they're going to college on Daddy's cash and you're just stuck doing this for the rest of your life.

This voice almost has that same, over exaggerated pompous sneer, but it's the voice of a grown man.

You turn around to be faced by Redd White, who looks like he's been out for a jog or something-- in his suit for some reason-- and you want to punch his stupid, half-plastic face, just to have the satisfaction of watching him bounce off the wall behind him like a rubber ball.

He looks entirely too pleased with himself, and you want to tell him that he owes Miss May so much more than he offers her.

But the customer is always right, and you don't.

And he looks smug but almost frantic and guilty-- you wonder absently what  _his_  vice is; drugs, women, gambling,  _men_? You don't know, and you don't care. You find him and his fakeness-- which he doesn't  _have_  to do because he's not getting  _paid_  for it-- somewhat repulsive. You can't quite put your finger on why. 

Not so oddly enough, he's continued on his way without even waiting for you to respond. Your response doesn't matter to him. But you get the idea that the only thing that matters to him on any level is Redd White. You get the impression that if you respond, it's all just about Redd White thinking he's doing you a favor by knowleging you.

 

Tomorrow these people will be out of your life. You just get an inkling about it; you won't see them again. He's not the high-powered CEO having an affair with his secretary, glancing at his hand reveals he has a number of mismatched rings, but none to suggest he's married. He's just... probably thinking he's too good for her.

That's what he chooses to think. The reality is much the opposite.

You watch him walk up to the doorway and let himself into the room. You can't hear or see April May in there, and you wonder briefly what she's doing, but don't think about it much further than that.

When you get down to the lobby, it's silent-awake-soul-dead-white-lighting. You can't concentrate.

You're failing at customer service, regardless of what you thought you were doing by walking out on Miss May. You've consciously walked away from the first person you connected with in ... what...  _years_ , perhaps?

It's years later, though, and you're still remembering this night with every ice coffee that you deliver.


End file.
